Theirs is that sun, nor Ireland boast of her! 20
Ye nymphs of Leicester, famed for Maidens fair!
When now your poets paint the fairest there,
No luckless Lucy yields the favourite theme,
But Rutland, bright as Liffey’s limpid stream—
Liffey, that rolls with prouder current on
And bear our sighs, who mourn, now she is gone!—
Health to the future glories of that race,
In whom the likeness of the past we trace;
Who live to add new honours to their name,